“No, no, no!” Fiona protested. She shot a warning glance toward Prospere. How dare the devilish scamp bring this up in front of Edouard’s daughter? “You should not have mentioned this,” she told him sharply.
“But why not?” Camille insisted. “It sounds perfect.”
Fiona rose from the table. “Will you excuse us now, Prospere? I think Camille and I should have a little chat alone.”
He smiled and nodded, obviously pleased with his mischief as he poured another cup of coffee.
“Come along, Camille,” Fiona ordered. “It is time you and I got a few matters straight between us.”
Even as they walked through the house and out into the tiny garden in back, Fiona’s mind was working. She was angry with Prospere for teasing Cami that way, but perhaps he had given Fiona just the idea she needed. Once she explained to Camille about the Orleans Ballroom and the Bals du Cordon Bleu, better know as the Quadroon Balls, she was certain the girl would be horrified by the very thought. No doubt, Edouard’s lovely daughter would go running back to Mulgrove Plantation where she belonged for fear of being forced into such a daring masquerade.
Fiona glanced back at Camille—so ripe and slender and beautiful. And innocent, the woman reminded herself with a sigh. It was a shame Edouard had put these ideas of love into her head. She would have made a wonderful wife and mother before, but this rebellious spirit fostered by her own father’s words and actions could only cause her grief. There seemed only one way Fiona could help her. She must frighten Camille into putting aside her dangerous thoughts and accepting her proper role as a Creole wife and mother.
Sensing that Fiona was deep in thought, Cami followed her in silence. When they reached the garden—a small but lovely fenced plot ablaze with a rainbow of cosmos and zinnias—Fiona finally turned to her and smiled.
“Prospere is a dear young man, but I’m afraid he talks too much.” She smiled apologetically at Cami.
“I found his stories fascinating. I only wish he had told me more about the Orleans Ballroom.”
Fiona gripped Cami’s hand and squeezed. “Actually, although I scolded him for mentioning the balls in your presence, I’m glad now that he brought up the subject. I’d been thinking myself of that very thing, but I was not sure how you would react. I know you’ll find my idea shocking at first, but at least consider it, Camille. It may be your only chance for finding true love.”
Cami laughed, hugged herself, and twirled in a circle, her heart suddenly light and gay. “Fiona, do you know what it means to me to be told that I even have a chance? Tell me your plan. At once!”
Fiona led Camille to a marble bench and they both sat down. The older woman took Cami’s hands in hers. “I’m so glad you are at least willing to listen, my dear. The Quadroon Balls are quite respectable. As Prospere pointed out, only gentlemen of the best social standing are allowed to attend. And they must pay two dollars to gain entry to the Orleans Ballroom—twice the amount they would pay to enter the white balls in town.”
Camille’s smile faded for a moment. “The Quadroon Balls? The white balls? I don’t understand, Fiona.”
Pretending nonchalance, Fiona picked a large purple zinnia and twirled it between her slender fingers. She stared at it, not wanting to meet Camille’s eyes. “Surely you must have heard of these affairs, my dear. I met your own father at such a soirée. Only the most beautiful free women of color in the city are invited to attend. Gentlemen from all over come to the Quadroon Balls to choose their placées.” She turned then, and looked squarely at Camille.
“Free women of color?” Cami echoed, slightly dazed by Fiona’s explanation.
“Such as myself, dear.” Fiona smiled gently. “The members of my family have been free from the earliest days of New Orleans. It is said that one of the founders of this city, Jean Baptiste le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville, chose an ancestor of mine to be his mistress. Ever after that, the women of my family have been free and have used the Le Moyne name. From the crudest beginnings of this town on the river, we have followed in each other’s ways, taking only the most worthy gentlemen as our protectors. Men such as your own father, Camille. Our daughters follow our lead, while our sons are sent to Paris, where they receive the finest educations. Some stay there for life. Others, like my own son, Prospere, return to set up business in New Orleans”
Camille’s eyes went wide. “Prospere is your son, Fiona?”
The woman nodded and smiled. “A son to be proud of.”
“But I thought…” Cami stumbled over the words, catching herself just before she admitted exactly what she had thought about Prospere and his relationship with Fiona. Quickly, she changed directions and asked, “How old is Prospere?”
“Almost twenty. Can you believe it?”
Cami felt a wave of relief, yet, she had to admit, some regret at Fiona’s answer. Edouard Mazaret had always wanted a son. Prospere’s blue eyes, his ready smile—it might have been. But not if he was approaching twenty. As far as Cami knew, her father had not met Fiona Le Moyne until at least a year later—after her own birth.
“So? What do you think?” Fiona asked.
“I think Prospere is extremely handsome and quite charming.”
Fiona laughed and reached up to tuck the purple zinnia into Camille’s shining hair. “His mother thanks you, dear. Actually, though, I meant—what do you think about attending the Quadroon Ball? Your dark hair would work to your favor. But then, octoroons and quadroons come in all colors, with eyes as light-gold as mine or as blue as Prospere’s. I could tell everyone that you are my niece, sent here by my sister in Mobile to find a proper protector.”
Fiona held her breath, awaiting an outburst of righteous indignation from Camille. At the very least, she anticipated an outraged visitation from the angry spirit of her dear, departed Edouard.
Instead, the bees buzzed on in the garden, the butterflies continued kissing flowers, and Camille turned a glowing countenance on Fiona, her eyes fairly sparkling.
“It’s perfect!” Cami cried, throwing herself into the woman’s arms. “How can I ever thank you for thinking of this? I’ll go to the ball. I’ll find the man I love. Then I’ll tell Cousin Morris that I’ve decided upon a husband. Won’t my intended be surprised when he discovers this grand masquerade and that he has found himself a wife instead of simply a placée! Oh, Fiona, you’re brilliant!”
Fiona felt like moaning aloud. What had she done? Camille was either calling her bluff or she was actually delighted by the bizarre scheme. Silently, Fiona begged Edouard Mazaret’s forgiveness from beyond.
“Are you certain you wish to do this, Camille?” There was true pleading in Fiona’s gentle voice. “I would never want to force you into anything.”
Cami was on her feet, practically dancing with excitement. “Force me? Just try to keep me away. When is the next ball? What shall I wear?” Suddenly, she turned toward Fiona, her indigo eyes sparkling with blue and violet lights as she whispered, “Why, Fiona, at the Orleans Ballroom I might even get to meet Victoine Navar!”
The anguished moan Fiona had been holding in finally escaped her. “Mother of God, what have I done?”
Still, just seeing Camille’s happiness and excitement was like being a part of something magical. Fiona smiled in spite of herself.
“When may I go?” Cami begged.
“On Thursday evening next, if that suits you, Mademoiselle Mazaret.”
Camille whirled around, making the peach silk gown fly in the breeze. “Oh, yes! It suits me well, Madame Le Moyne!”
Chapter Ten
“Carol!” Frank yelled. Then he yelled and yelled some more. No use! She had simply vanished in an angry whorl of fog. He stared off into the veil of black nothingness, his face a mask of anguish.
“God, she’s gone off into this swamp alone and I never even remembered to tell her about the snake.” Frank had found out last time he stopped into the office that forensics had, after closer examination, discovered two tiny puncture wou
nds in the mummy’s left ankle, made by the fangs of a poisonous swamp-rattler. Now, Carol had gone off into that other time—to God knows where—without so much as a warning. If Carol had become Camille Mazaret again, and if the mummy had once been that same Creole lady, then sooner or later that deadly snake was bound to cross Carol’s path.
“Damn! How could I have forgotten something that important?” Frank cursed. He lifted his voice once more in a long, pleading wail for Carol. Still no answer.
Frank had figured he couldn’t sink any lower than he’d been when the alarm clock woke him earlier this morning. Now, however, he knew he’d been dead wrong. In the last five minutes, he’d sunk lower than a swamp-rattler’s belly.
What had happened? What had gone wrong? He thought back over the morning’s events trying to figure it out.
Before the clock woke Carol, he’d been lying in the dark next to her, trying to rationalize how he could wake up feeling so rotten after he’d gone to sleep believing—thanks to Carol—that he owned the whole damn world. The two of them seemed so perfect together. So why did this miserable, gut-gnawing guilt have to mess things up?
Frank had figured that Carol didn’t need to know what a lousy mood he was in. So he’d put on a grand show for her, pretending that his personal black cloud had vanished for good. Once they settled in the pirogue and got going, his mind had eased somewhat or at least been diverted. He had focused his attention on the strange scenes Choctaw had shown him. He’d all but forgotten where he really was. He had actually felt like he was a part of the past. Damned if he wasn’t beginning to believe that he was Black Vic!
Then, only moments ago, Carol’s voice, telling him they’d arrived, had jolted him back to his senses. It couldn’t be more than five minutes ago that he was watching the Battle of New Orleans. Now, here he sat, still groping for Carol’s hand through the dense fog, knowing all the time that it was useless.
Carol was gone and he was in the pits!
Frank turned and glared at Choctaw. The big Indian—or whatever he was—stood in the stern of the boat, poling as lazily as before, as if nothing had happened.
“What the hell did you do with Carol?” Frank demanded. “You bring her back here or, so help me, I’ll wring your scrawny neck!”
Choctaw said not a word. He just kept poling. Enraged, Frank made a sudden move toward the stoic figure. The pirogue tipped, Frank lurched. The next minute he hit the cold, black water and plunged under, going deeper and deeper. He tried desperately to swim back to the surface, but his arms and legs seemed totally useless, paralyzed. Frank’s lungs felt like they would burst. His eyes shot open. He saw a thin, wavering light glowing down through the murky depths. Holding his breath—still trying to swim—he concentrated on that one bright spot. If he could just make himself stop fighting and relax, maybe he would float effortlessly up to the top of the water—to air and life.
Maybe, hell! Maybe he’d drown!
That thought seemed to take the fight out of him. He closed his eyes and actually smiled. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with the damn guilt any longer. And besides, if Carol was gone, what did he care about living?
The instant Frank gave up, the light engulfed him. Brilliance wrapped him and warmed him and brought him up for air. He gasped several times, filling his aching lungs until he felt dizzy and disoriented. But how sweet it was to breathe again!
Frank’s euphoria vanished the minute he opened his eyes. He wasn’t merely at the surface of the water. He was in another world entirely. He knew this place, yet he didn’t. Frank found himself walking down Decatur Street in New Orleans, headed toward the French Market. The day was hot and muggy under a brassy summer sky. He was sweating inside his heavy clothes and suddenly longed for the cool, black water he’d left moments before.
“Just wait a damn minute!” he said, stopping so abruptly that a big, black woman with a basket balanced on her head ran slap into him. He failed even to notice as he stared about in amazement. “This isn’t any New Orleans I’ve ever seen—except in old paintings.”
“Bonjour, M’sieur Navar.” A passing stranger tipped his high silk hat to Frank.
“Yeah, you have a good one,” Frank answered absently, still numb with shock.
He glanced about, desperately searching for something—someone. “Carol!” he exclaimed under his breath. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve got to find her. She must be nearby.”
But all thoughts of Carol vanished in the blink of an eye. With his next breath, Frank heard himself speaking excellent French, asking the fellow—Monsieur Reynard—if he knew of any upcoming card games to be held at Gaspard’s.
Reynard replied, again in French, that he did indeed know of a game. “Scheduled for this very evening, it is, with high stakes and an opening for one more player should you be interested, Navar.”
The two men chatted amiably for several minutes, then Frank tipped his own top hat and said, “Au revoir.” Only he wasn’t Frank Longpre any longer. He’d never even heard that name. This was Victoine Navar who strode with purpose in his step toward the French Market. Perhaps he might glean some tidbits of gossip concerning Lazano, the man Fiona had told him was threatening his life.
Before reaching the market, Vic turned into a dim barroom. The rough sign over the door identified the place as “Le Bleuet,” “The Blue Bottle.” Owner and proprietor, Ignacio Bleu.
Early as it was in the day, Black Vic needed a drink. He’d been up all night, first riding out to Mulgrove, then chasing after that “runaway,” who’d turned out to be a sharp-fanged hellion in disguise. He glanced in disgust at his bandaged hand. It still throbbed like hell. The pain in itself was enough to justify an early shot of brandy.
“Ah, M’sieur Vic!” It was Ignacio Bleu himself who welcomed his faithful customer. “Good to see you. You’ve been away some time. On the river?”
“Oui, Ignacio, for the past month.” Vic dropped a coin on the rough counter, which consisted of an old door placed atop two wine barrels. He was a regular; Ignacio knew what he wanted without having to ask.
The short, round man poured Vic two fingers of brandy from a dusty bottle, asking, “Any luck in those floating gaming parlors?”
Vic lifted his glass to the light and savored its rich amber tint. A shade darker than Fiona’s eyes, he mused silently. Then in answer to Ignacio’s question, he gave the man a Gallic shrug. “The luck comes; the luck goes. You know how it is.”
The barkeep shook his bald head and sighed deeply. “Luck, she is no lady to treat us so badly, eh, M’sieur Vic? Often I wonder why we bother to tempt her, when we know all the while she will do us wrong.”
Vic drained his glass, then set it on the counter, smiled, and nodded for a refill. Leaning closer, he said, “Ah, but, mon ami, we must always give the lady one more chance. Who knows when her flirting and teasing may turn into something more pleasing, more productive? Tonight could be the night.”
The barman belted out a deep rumble of laughter and poured Vic another. “So, you know already of tonight’s game at Gaspard’s. I should have guessed.” Then the man cocked one brow and glanced about even though they were alone before he continued in a quieter voice. “But have you heard who is playing, M’sieur Vic?”
Black Vic raised his brimming glass in a silent toast to luck. “That matters little. You see, the lady will be at my side this evening. I feel it in my bones.” He winked at his friend. “Besides, I have had such a losing streak—mon Dieu!—it is my turn to win.”
Ignacio pursed his thick lips and nodded sagely. “As you say, M’sieur. But you should know that one of the players tonight will be that scoundrel Hector Lazano.”
A frown distorted Black Vic’s handsome features. He did not fear Lazano’s threats, but he had been counting on a civilized game this evening. This man, whose brother Vic had been forced to kill so long ago, was a known cheat. The evening and the poker would surely go badly with him at the table.
“Do you happen to know whe
re I might find Hector Lazano?” Vic asked of the barkeep. “The old score we have to settle should not ruin the game for everyone else.”
Ignacio nodded quickly, his rheumy eyes gleaming at the thought of a possible duel. “Oui, M’sieur! He is staying with a woman named Ivory at her house in Dumaine Street. Will you be needing a second to go with you to the oaks, sir?”
“Thank you, my friend, but no,” Vic answered. “I face only gentlemen on the field of honor. I will deal with Hector Lazano in some more suitable fashion.”
“Should I come along… as a witness?” Ignacio suggested, all eagerness, pulling off his apron. “I was about to close for a noon nap, you see.”
“A wise thought,” Black Vic answered. “Let’s be off, then. I want to settle this affair quickly so that tonight’s game will not be spoiled. I mean to play while I still feel lucky.”
The two men charged out into the bright noon sun—Ignacio eager to witness this possibly violent showdown and Victoine fired by the brandy in his blood and his keen appetite for revenge. Yes, revenge! he told himself. After all, Lazano had besmirched what little was left of his reputation by spreading his vile lies.
The old city seemed unusually quiet to Black Vic. The narrow streets were nearly bare of horse-drawn traffic and only an occasional pedestrian passed them on the banquette. Houses were shuttered and deserted until cooler, healthier weather returned. Only those on urgent business came to the city in the summer. Only those too poor to leave remained through the sweltering, fever-ridden months. Victoine Navar qualified in both categories, but he hoped all that would soon change.
By far the shorter of the two, Ignacio had to hurry to keep up with Black Vic’s long strides. Even the barkeep’s best pace proved inadequate, however.
“Please, M’sieur, I am not a racehorse,” Ignacio called. “This heat… my bad heart…”
Vic realized he was sweating heavily himself inside his evening clothes and cape. He slowed to let the other man catch up. They were almost to Ivory’s house anyway—a house and a woman Vic knew well by reputation, though not firsthand. When Victoine Navar required such services from a lady he seldom found it necessary to pay for them.
Whispers in Time Page 18
